


Like A Star Stream, One More Time

by that_1_incident



Category: Chilling Adventures of Sabrina (TV 2018)
Genre: F/F, Sibling Incest, Sister/Sister Incest, Spellcest, and a little bit of baking I guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-13
Updated: 2019-02-13
Packaged: 2019-10-27 16:24:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17770205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/that_1_incident/pseuds/that_1_incident
Summary: Behind the piercing eyes, shapely curves and loose ringlets of gold that Zelda’s surreptitiously coveted for centuries, Hilda reeks of sunshine and sincerity and a sense of perpetual crestfallenness that never fails to make something dark twist in her sister's stomach.





	Like A Star Stream, One More Time

**Author's Note:**

> Title adapted from "Sister Honey" by Stevie Nicks. 
> 
> This is my first foray into Zilda (update: [this is my second](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17884766) and [this is my third](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17963798)) but if Madam Spellman's your jam, check out [Something Wicked This Way Comes](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16523309), [There's Magic in the Night](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16575416), [There's Something About Mary](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16676707), [Post Tenebras Lux](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16781785), [The Shadowy Murmur of Suns](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16922571), [The Deathly Solace of Presence](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17299514), and [The Silvery Glamour of Star-Birth](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17659382) if you're so inclined.

Behind the piercing eyes, shapely curves and loose ringlets of gold that Zelda’s surreptitiously coveted for centuries, Hilda reeks of sunshine and sincerity and a sense of perpetual crestfallenness that never fails to make something dark twist in her sister's stomach. And although she tends to be underestimated by those who don’t know any better, there’s so much more to Hilda than one might expect at first glance, so many shadows that lurk beneath her welcoming exterior. After all, the Spellmans are known for being ruthless strategists – a trait that certainly didn’t skip a generation as far as Zelda and her siblings are concerned – and yet the elder of the two sisters is confident that splitting Hilda down the middle like a stick of rock would reveal a sweet nature riven through bone and sinew and glistening tissue, a frankly laughable departure from Zelda’s own icy core. (Indeed, Zelda feels distinctly qualified to make this determination given how many times she’s hewn her baby sister’s body with an axe.)

\--

But despite an intimate familiarity with the most splintered parts of Hilda – and by _parts_ , she means _dismembered ones_ – Zelda can't seem to avoid the temptation of observing her sister with an unbridled fascination from time to time, peering out from behind her newspaper only after ascertaining that Hilda's wholly focused on the messy, elbow-deep and completely avoidable laboriousness of baking. While Zelda has always thought the process far more befitting of a common mortal than a witch (albeit an excommunicated one), Hilda exhibits an almost defiant disregard for the undeniable fact that a swiftly muttered spell would yield a bevy of perfectly browned baked goods without the need to expend even a modicum of additional effort. 

Zelda feels her cheeks flush with arousal at the thought of her sister’s stubborn tenacity, of the immovable resolve that Hilda's displayed since they were young, of the crossed arms and knitted brows of the little girl who still exists within the shapely woman now standing before her, the one whose childlike sense of whimsy shines through to this day in the sparkle of her eyes.

Oblivious to Zelda’s gaze, Hilda absently touches the side of her face, an unconscious action that leaves the delicious roundedness of her jaw lightly dusted with flour. The image makes Zelda’s cunt twitch.

“Sister.”

The word comes out more huskily than anticipated, raspy with desire, and the way Hilda’s demeanor changes in an instant sends a pleasing frisson of electricity down Zelda’s spine. But the incredulous excitement in Hilda’s expression is tinged with timidity, and although her hesitation is indubitably warranted given her frequent visits to the Cain Pit, a sharp ache nonetheless asserts itself in Zelda’s chest.

When Zelda lifts a slender finger to her own countenance and mirrors the flour's speckled path with a perfectly manicured nail, Hilda visibly relaxes. It appears that falling victim to yet another sororicide isn't in the cards for her, after all – or, at least, not today.

“Baking can be such a messy business,” Hilda tuts, then purses her plump lips as she rubs at her jaw. There’s a void in the flour now, stark as the rectangular absence of whiteness that emerges whenever Ambrose moves the hearse in the mortuary driveway after a snowstorm, and Zelda shakes her head ever so slightly.

“Come here.”

Hilda obediently wipes her hands on the apron tied around her waist, its strings pulled tautly across the soft convexity of her hips in a manner that Zelda finds utterly entrancing. Upon reaching the table at which Zelda's still seated, Hilda hovers a little awkwardly by her sister's side and worries at her thumbnail until the elder witch dispels her nervous energy with a brief but reassuring touch.

“You missed a spot,” Zelda informs her archly, rising to take full advantage of their height difference.

Hilda inhales sharply as one of her sister’s hands anchors itself at the plush curve of her hip while the other barely grazes her chin. Two quick and none-too-gentle swipes later, the flour has vanished, replaced by the fiery hue of a blush.

“There,” Zelda says perfunctorily. She pauses for a beat, watches the confusion flash across Hilda’s face and then leans forward with a smirk. 

The sudden press of her mouth catches Hilda mid-gasp, and Zelda seizes the opportunity to simultaneously kiss her sister deeply and luxuriate in the surprised heave of Hilda's bosom. Although they’ve done this on enough occasions over the decades for Zelda to be well aware of what’s coming next, the sensation of sunny, affable Hilda raising her roughly onto the tabletop takes her breath away every time.

As if prompted by the lingering kinesthetic memory of their past encounters, Zelda spreads her legs without further preamble, offering herself wholeheartedly to the woman who knows her better than anyone, to her own flesh and blood. The glint in Hilda’s eye is now anything but childlike, and when she slides her fingertips into Zelda’s mouth, sweet traces of powdered sugar dissolve on Zelda's tongue.

If Hilda's quick work of her sister's dress, slip and tights is anything to go by, she's likely relying on some type of muscle memory of her own, and her newly saliva-slick fingers are soon easing beneath the cool satin that belies Zelda’s throbbing heat. She strokes Zelda lightly – too lightly, which elicits an anguished hiss from the object of her ministrations – and her stricken sister's hips cant desperately upward.

“Say the magic word, Zelds,” Hilda chastises while doing something abjectly unholy with her thumb, and the _Please_ that rushes from Zelda’s lips is less a word than a prayer.

Zelda can’t even begin to think about stifling the moan that rises in her throat when Hilda finally slips inside her, fingers crooking with a familiarity that instantaneously makes her flood before drawing back like a snake about to strike and plunging blessedly deeper. With the promise of a supremely satisfying crescendo swirling ever closer, Zelda's half-lidded eyes can only hazily make out the beam of pride illuminating Hilda’s rosy cheeks.

“Thank you, sister,” she whispers reverently as the first sparks of unbridled pleasure glimmer exquisitely at the apex of her thighs. 

Although Hilda physically falters for a moment at the acknowledgment, her ultimate response is to meet Zelda’s gaze and double down, expertly thrusting into her sister’s sodden cunt while kneading at Zelda's aching center with all the skill of an accomplished baker. It isn't long until Zelda's arching her back in ecstasy, the fruits of her sister's labor reverberating through her body as her carefully folded newspaper falls to the floor.


End file.
